


Year of Living Dangerously

by JerseyGirl324



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, M/M, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scenario from the Year that Never Was: the Doctor is mentally and emotionally tormented by the Master during sex. Takes place shortly after the events in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/642296">Sex and Violence</a>, and serves as a parallel and companion piece to that fic...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Year of Living Dangerously

The Doctor lies naked and still on sheets of crimson silk, a plush pillow supporting his weary head and shoulders. He has been here many times before, in this very position, and he simultaneously hates and craves the burning need that threatens to consume him from the inside out. During these solitary moments, he allows his mind to wander back to the carefree days when he and Koschei would run through fields of red grass; when they were true friends and kindred spirits. They had made promises to each other, childish promises that have since evolved into a perverse dance of power and control. It all seems so long ago, but now here he is, falling back into a familiar rhythm while the world burns. He tells himself that his submission is necessary to save Jack, Martha, all of them; but the shameful truth is that he cannot stop, cannot give up what he has only just recovered. The Doctor has a thirst that hundreds of years have not been able to quench; even the end of his beloved Earth cannot extinguish the fire raging inside his very soul.

The Master’s bedchamber on the Valiant is a testament to his grandiose personality; no opulent detail has been overlooked in its furnishing and appointment. The beige marble floors are covered with lavish carpets, all in various patterns and shades of red. An imposing bed of dark, rich mahogany, stacked high with pillows, dominates one side of the large room, and soft lighting casts a dangerously seductive glow throughout. Under more ideal circumstances, the luxurious atmosphere could almost be considered romantic, but the constant presence of the soldier in the far corner serves as a harsh reminder that romance is hardly the Master’s primary objective. The Doctor has gradually learned to tolerate the unnerving company of the guards; he once begged to have them dismissed during a more intimate moment, but the Master had only laughed in his face, reveling in the Doctor’s shame and discomfort. It was made clear to him that the request was impertinent—and he has not dared to ask a second time.

Prostrate and exposed, with no blanket to cover his pale form, the Doctor shudders slightly when he hears the heavy oak door slowly creak open behind him. Familiar footsteps echo in the large space, growing louder and more purposeful in their brisk advance. He can feel piercing eyes running over his bare skin like prickling needles, examining every inch of him, and he quietly turns to stare up at his fellow Time Lord. In stark contrast to the Doctor’s nakedness, the Master is dressed in his usual black suit and crisp white shirt, displaying his authority with charismatic ease and a careful attention to detail.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” The Master radiates smugness as he appraises his captive with the pathological fascination that has become the essence of their relationship. The guards had escorted the Doctor to the bedchamber an hour earlier, and then left him to burn with lingering apprehension and raw, unadulterated _need_.

“I can’t complain, actually,” the other Time Lord replies dryly, meeting his tormentor’s gaze with quiet defiance. The Doctor is strangely calm and composed, and the Master doesn’t like it. “As you know, your bed is always an improvement over my own… _accommodations_.”

“Don’t make excuses for your desire to be with me, Doctor,” the Master warns knowingly. “You practically beg to be kept close, beg for what only I can give you.”

“This is not the way, Master,” the Doctor sighs, eyes silently imploring. “Please. Let me show you.” He still hasn’t found what will set him free—what will set them _both_ free. The clock is ticking away; to what, the Doctor doesn’t yet know. But something has to change.

“This is what you get,” the Master snaps impatiently. “Take it or leave it.”

When the Doctor says nothing in reply, the Master joins him on the sensuous bed, wrapping an arm around his slender frame and embracing him possessively from behind. He listens to the rapid beating of the Doctor’s hearts, the shallowness of his breathing. For a long time they are both still, bodies pressed tightly together. The Master idly traces the patterns of fading welts on the other Time Lord’s back, then growls and nips at his ear, eliciting a breathless whimper. He feels himself growing hard beneath the trousers, and grinds licentiously against the naked flesh that offers itself so gorgeously to his pleasure. He claws at the Doctor’s shoulder with primal lust, drawing out a long, desperate moan from his agreeable prey. It is always like this between them: the Master never asks, never waits for permission, but simply takes and consumes the object of his desire with an insatiable hunger.

Without fanfare, he reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, coating a finger thoroughly before pressing it into the cleft of the Doctor’s arse and gently massaging his taut entrance. He is rewarded with a hitched breath and a delicious shiver; the Master gives a low, throaty chuckle and slips the finger smoothly inside, feeling the other Time Lord’s body welcome the invasion as though it wants to be conquered, wants to be of service to its Master.

“You open so beautifully for me,” he murmurs. “Your body is always honest, even when your words are not.”

“I am not a liar,” the Doctor hisses softly, clenching his muscles exquisitely as a second and then a third finger slide easily inside, coaxing him wider with deliberate precision.

“No,” the Master agrees solemnly. “But you’re a hypocrite all the same.”

Once again, the Doctor falls silent, unable to muster a suitable reply to the recurring accusation. He feels the Master’s experienced fingers preparing him, and his cheeks burn with shame when his own cock twitches and begins to stiffen. His body is always a traitor when the Master is involved, and he isn’t sure what that says about his mental state. The Doctor never fails to sacrifice himself upon the altar of his own temptations, often with unintended disregard for those who are loyal to him. They would be shocked if they knew; would instantly realize that he was no martyr, but rather a mere slave to his own selfish proclivities.

“Get on your back.” The command comes almost in a whisper, snapping the Doctor back to an unforgiving reality. He is startled by the tender request; the Master never takes him that way, face-to-face, but he promptly rolls over nonetheless, temporarily banishing his guilt and internal conflict. Being with the Master allows for no sense of equilibrium; when the Doctor expects a slap, he receives a caress, and when he anticipates a deep kiss, he is given a sharp bite. He has long understood that nothing will ever be predictable between the two of them.

The Master turns his attention briefly to the watchful guard. “Leave us,” he orders.

The guard exits the room in silence, and when the door clicks shut securely behind him, the unexpected intimacy causes the Doctor to grow suddenly nervous. The Master wastes no time in freeing his erection from restrictive trousers, positioning himself carefully between the other Time Lord’s trembling thighs. He makes for a captivating sight, with his flushed face, tousled hair, and downcast gaze. The Master can’t tell if the Doctor averts his eyes in shame, respect, or fear, but he is going to ensure that his quarry sees him properly—sees _only_ him.

“Look at me.”

The Doctor reluctantly obeys, eyes moist with tears as he glances up at the man who causes him so much strife, so much turmoil, so much hedonistic pleasure. The Master makes him feel _alive_ , but at what cost to his sanity? To those who put their full faith and belief in him? Martha is wandering the Earth, asking its citizens to remember his name, and Jack is a prisoner on the Valiant because of his fumbled missteps. Down below, the people cry out in agony.

The Doctor is no longer sure where his own faith lies, but he will help them, as he always has and always will. In the end, they are still human, and will never understand the mutual obsession that has flourished between himself and the Master for centuries. Even if they could begin to grasp its raw, magnetic power, he doubts they would be sympathetic. They have every right to hate the man known as Harold Saxon. It would be easier if he could do the same.

The Master gives the Doctor a sly smile, and places the head of his cock against the slick orifice. He hesitates for only a fleeting moment before thrusting in roughly to the hilt, breath catching sharply as he becomes encased in tight, silky heat. The Doctor whines, instinctively angling his hips upward to meet the onslaught. His own cock is now fully erect, but when he tentatively reaches down to touch himself, the Master swiftly bats his hand away.

“No,” he scolds, thrusting in a steady, tantalizing rhythm. “Not until I say.”

The Master deliberately hits all the right spots while blatantly withholding satisfaction. It all stems from his need to control, his hunger for power. But something much darker is also at work. The Master is a sadist pure and simple; the Doctor used to deny it, but deep down he has always known the truth. From the time they were young, he could see the warning signs in his friend, the subtle penchant for cruelty.

In fact, he once traveled to Enlightenment France, where he made the acquaintance of a certain Marquis; but even that strange and philosophic aristocrat was no rival for the Master. The Doctor has come to accept what his fellow Time Lord is, but he still harbours the undying hope that he can redirect that cruelty into less harmful channels. He would dutifully take the brunt of it himself, if that was what it took.

The Master’s thrusts are becoming rougher and more erratic, and the Doctor squirms and bucks as his arse is stretched wide open. This assertive treatment is more familiar, and he relaxes slightly, clenching around that magnificent girth and drawing it deeper into his compliant body. The Master hisses in ecstasy, accelerating his frenetic pace. The Doctor feels the horribly sensual brush of soft wool across his bare chest, setting his nerves alight, and he moans in breathless appreciation. The Master’s earlier gentleness had taken him by surprise; he had been unsure of how to respond, having long ago become accustomed to aggressive domination.

The Master laughs softly, and there is predatory fire in his eyes as he reaches down and pinches the Doctor’s hardened nipples, twisting each one sharply and causing searing bursts of pain that both complement and counterbalance the rippling waves of pleasure. The Doctor’s cock is now engorged and leaking from neglect; mercifully, the Master finally takes it in hand and works in sharp, abrupt strokes that match his own manic rhythm.

“You like that, don’t you?”

The Doctor whimpers in affirmation, pushing himself fitfully into the Master’s hand with sheer desperation and unrestrained need. Pricking beads of sweat drench his brow and dampen his unkempt hair as an unrelenting pressure builds in his lower abdomen, bringing him closer to the edge. He is teetering on the very brink when the Master’s voice firmly pulls him back.

“Your pathetic humans call you a hero. Little do they know…”

The colour drains from the Doctor’s face as the words register. But the cacophony of physical sensations that engulf his overstimulated body and mind are too strong, and he becomes dizzy with simultaneous desire and panic.

“They want you. Jack and Martha,” the Master continues, his ministrations purposefully sweeter than his tone. “But all _you_ want…all you _need_ …is me.”

The Doctor’s head is swimming with shame and lust, and the Master pounds into him with a force that threatens to break him in two. His breath catches in his throat as he is firmly stroked and squeezed, unable to hold back the oncoming tidal wave of violent release.

“Come for me, Doctor,” the Master murmurs seductively. “Show me who you belong to.”

The Doctor obliges with a ragged moan, body shuddering as he spills into the steadfast hand that grips him tight, so wonderfully tight. His pale stomach is drenched with the sticky warmth of his climax, and the Master’s mocking laugh drifts down through the heady afterglow. He is not given a chance to recover, not afforded a single moment to breathe, as his fellow Time Lord furiously continues with the pursuit of his own carefully orchestrated satisfaction.

“You’re so _easy_ ,” the Master sneers, looking pitilessly upon the rumpled figure who writhes beneath his unrestrained assault. “Even the freak had the courage to put up a fight.”

Horror descends like a veil over the Doctor’s gentle features. The Master savours it, drinks it in, and stills himself deep inside the other Time Lord’s quivering body before letting the ax fall. “But even he sacrificed himself because he thought it would spare _you_.”

“What have you done?” The Doctor chokes out the words, barely able to hold back his distress. Fresh tears glisten in his pleading eyes as he fights the blistering revelation of his own cowardice. _Jack, please forgive me…_

“No, Doctor. The question is: what have _you_ done? For any of them?” the Master scoffs, cruelly twisting the knife as he resumes his harsh, unyielding thrusts. The Doctor is so expressive in his present regeneration; it was a waste to age him. The Master runs a taunting hand over his captive’s abdomen, smearing stickiness across his stomach and chest. He feels his own climax building, fueled by the Doctor’s utter humiliation. One final blow is all it takes:

“Maybe _you’re_ the one who is pathetic, Doctor.”

With those stinging words, the Master’s release comes hard and fast, and he empties himself inside the ravished Doctor with a childish glee. He basks in the victorious moment for a long while before finally withdrawing from the limp figure who now lies crushed beneath him. The Doctor is muttering incoherently into the sheets, but he manages to make out the words “ _I’m sorry_ ” repeated over and over again.

“Why do you cling to them?” the Master spits, voice thick with contempt. The sight before him is truly wretched, but when no response is forthcoming, he brusquely stands up, wipes off, and tucks himself back in with nothing more than cold indifference. The Doctor’s mind is elsewhere, and he seems unaware of anything beyond his own tormented thoughts.

With an exasperated sigh, the Master heads for the door, not bothering to spare a second glance at his devastated victim as he strides out of the room. The heavy oak swings shut, and the Doctor is left alone in the massive chamber, crumpled up in the damp bedding and choking back hot tears. His body is unscathed, but he is scarred down to his very soul. And those psychic wounds are far worse than any physical damage ever could be.

**Author's Note:**

> For something of a continuation of this story arc, see my newest fic: [I Need a Witness (to See the Mess I've Made)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/947465)


End file.
